Thanks to a fair wind, two nights—one of which Violet had been obliged to sleep in the vole hole, which meant fitfully turning and tossing in order prevent her body from touching overlong any part of that vile little mattress—and one day later they dropped anchor during clear benign weather in Le Havre, France, and were lowered over the side of the ship rather gracelessly into the launch by the means of pulleys. They got her into the boat without soaking her hem or peering up her dress, though the temptation must have been torturous, and a small crew, a staff really—Greeber, Lumley, Corcoran—rowed them into the busy harbor, where ships clearly from all over the world, judging from languages shouted by the sailors on their decks sailors and the words painted across hulls, were anchored.
“The Comte Hebert found himself in reduced circumstances since the war, which means he now holds only five properties, one palace, and two hundred or so servants among them.”
The earl explained this to her. He’d scarcely spoken to her in the past two days, which made these words feel far more significant than they were. She had a peculiar hope he’d been ignoring her, because “ignoring” was more active than forgetting all about her.
“And the viscomtesse?” she asked the earl.
He looked at her at length then from his seat in the launch, and then frowned a little. As though he kept expecting to see something else when he looked at her, but simply saw her again and again.
“The viscomtesse is rather new to being a viscomtesse,” the earl said shortly. Making it clear this was the end of any conversation about the countess.
Interesting, indeed.
Lavay seemed to find his amusing. “Ah, but she’s played the part many a time on stage.”
“Was she an actress?” she asked this a little too eagerly. Actress. Yet another word to add to her storehouse of knowledge of the darker side of men.
But Flint ignored this. Because he suddenly he had that fixity of expression again. Like a predator with prey in his sight. It never failed to make all the little hairs on the back of Violet’s neck stand up.
“Lavay.” He gestured with his chin.
Everyone in the launch turned and stared as they rowed nonchalantly past a handsome schooner. It had two masts to The Fortuna’s three; the hull was painted a dull, almost sea-foam green; the foredeck trimmed in yellow-gold.
From the deck, a sailor with a spyglass idly watched them pass, raised a hand.
The men raised hands in return. And continued rowing past.
Violet’s heart leaped into her throat.
“It’s…The Olivia, isn’t it?” Her voice was hoarse.
“She’s bonnie, aye?” Corcoran said this with ironic cheer. “Built for speed. Though I’d warrant she could carry a heavy cargo, too. Even human cargo.”
Violet didn’t quite understand the cold looks that ricocheted between the men.
“It’s said Hardesty primarily makes runs to the Indies, or carries sugar cargo,” Lavay mused.
“Fortunately we’ll have an opportunity to speak with him about it tonight.” The earl sounded grimly pleased.
And she knew he stared at her again, searching her the way he might search that ship for clues.
But she was staring greedily at The Olivia. She tried to feel Lyon, sense his mark upon it, but the launch was rowed quickly past, and she felt nothing at all.
The Palais of the Viscomte and Viscomtesse Hebert was a trifle less grand than the word might imply, but then again, Violet was accustomed to marble from Carrera, to gilt and ormolu, to fathoms-deep Savonnerie carpets. She felt at home, rather than boggled, though her father’s tastes trended more modern than the Heberts’ clearly did.
Reduced circumstances, indeed. And it was only one of their residences.
They were ushered through a grand, airy domed foyer into a sitting room furnished in a dozen shades of gray: fog, silver, and pussy willow, if she were forced to name them. A tall carved fireplace dominated one end, and over it was an enormous painting of a beautiful woman. Violet scarcely had time to inspect it when the rapid clicking of slippers over marble shot all of them to their feet.
The woman in the painting, human-sized, appeared.
“So. You have become an earl, Captain Flint, since last we met,” the Viscomtesse Hebert said by way of greeting.
Her elocution was flawless, every syllable caressed, but the Comtesse Hebert still managed to make it sound like the earl had committed a crime against her by acquiring a title.
She extended her hand as though bestowing a blessing, and the earl dutifully bowed over it. She was tiny of waist, generous of bust and unburdened by modesty, as she appeared to have been all but sewn into her dress and her bosom appeared to be struggling to free itself from the low neckline. Her exquisite little feline face called to mind a cat bored of drinking naught but cream day after day but resigned to its fate.
“And you have become a wife and viscomtesse, Marie-Victoire,” the earl replied. Please accept my belated congratulations on your splendid marriage. I have been remiss in not sending a gift.”
Very good irony, indeed, Violet thought.
“Your presence is gift enough, my dear Asher.”
Such exquisitely rolled R’s. She’d made it sound like both a promise and a threat, and Violet studied the earl for signs of impact. She found him, naturally, inscrutable. Which likely meant there had indeed been impact.
Asher. First names. Innuendo. It was a bit too reminiscent of London ballrooms. Violet was ready to smack someone with a fan already, and the dancing hadn’t even begun. She never in her dreams thought she’d become nostalgic for the vole hole.
The viscomtesse next bestowed her hand upon Lavay.
“Lord Lavay. What a pleasure it is to see you again.” Up went that hand to Lavay. Lace so gossamer it might have been spun from spring breezes and moth wings fluttered at the snug sleeves of her pale yellow dress. Violet surreptitiously fingered the sleeves of her own muslin day dress, reassuring herself of its quality.
Lavay bowed over that hand. “The pleasure is all mine, Viscomtesse. My felicitations on your marriage as well. It’s remarkable; it seemed we were in Le Havre only recently and the next you are married! How time flies.”
More innuendo. Lavay was very good at it. Violet was filled with admiration.
The viscomtesse’s smile was decidedly tight. “It was a coup de foudre, of a certainty,” the viscomtesse replied smoothly. “My husband…” She stopped, and frowned faintly, looking surprised, searching for a word.
“Vicente?” the earl supplied. Darkly amused.
“Yes! Vicente,” she recovered, flustered, “sends his regrets, as he is not at present in, but he shall join us for dinner and dancing.”
“And isn’t it amusing, Marie-Victoire?” Lavay pressed, as though she hadn’t heard him at all the first time. “One never would have suspected Captain Flint would one day outrank your husband.”
He beamed disingenuously.
The comtesse’s smile officially congealed. Tiny fangs, thought Violet critically, would not look out of place in it.
“Or outrank you, my dear Comte Lavay. In every way.” She purred it. She was very good at the innuendo, too.
The viscomtesse turned to Violet, while behind her Lavay mimed taking a knife to the heart and twisting it and the earl shot him a repressive look.
The viscomtesse laughed, a sound like cascading fairy bells. “Though I confess I have seldom seen a less likely earl,” she added.
“From a vertical position, anyhow,” Lavay murmured.
“And who is this darling creature?” She turned her back abruptly on Lavay and the earl to examine Violet. She tipped her head, and her wide eyes flicked over her speculatively.
Violet gravely disliked being called both “darling” and “creature,” particularly in an overly precious French accent, as she was decidedly neither. She felt an invigorating surge of antipathy.
Related in part to the fact that the earl’s blue eyes were glinting insufferably.
No petal ever floated toward the earth more gracefully than Violet curtsied to the viscomtesse. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hebert. I must say, it’s exceedingly generous of you to extend your hospitality to me, as I’m the earl’s lov—”
“May I introduce Miss Violet Redmond, Madam le Viscomtesse,” the earl interrupted smoothly.
The rigidity of his spine, however, told her he wasn’t the least amused.
It was pleasant to surprise him yet again. This man who likely had seen so much of the world and the people in it.
Nor was the viscomtesse. Her enormous sherry-colored eyes fixed upon Violet’s face, and whatever she concluded during that silent inspection made her beautiful face go hard. She gave her head the minutest little toss.
Violet gave her a sympathetic smile. So terribly sorry you can find no gruesome flaw in me. Lady Peregrine represented the breed in London: dissatisfied married women who deployed their limited intellectual capacities into inventorying their appearances against other women. And losing sleep over it. And plotting petty, infinite games to prove superiority in matters great and small.
Violet was torn between two equally unacceptable impulses: yawning or taking off her shoe and giving the dear creature a little whap with it.
“Miss Redmond is Lord Lavay’s cousin,” the earl continued smoothly, “and we have lately been charged with escorting her home from Spain to her family. Knowing you as I do, I was certain you would hasten to make her feel welcome and comfortable and include her in the festivities.”
It was the first Violet had heard of this story, and she admired its credibility, as well as the earl’s pretty speech. She was also certain none of what he said about the viscomtesse was true, but that the viscomtesse would be unable to resist viewing herself as the gracious lady. Ah, he was a clever one.
Vanity the magnitude of the Viscomtesse Hebert’s must be a terribly inconvenient affliction, Violet thought. It would make one so easy to manage.
Lavay, for his part, was still staring at Violet with something akin to awe. Clearly impressed with the sheer bald cheek of what she’d been about to say.
Up went her eyebrows in his direction. She gave him the slightest shrug, one that rivaled his own for insouciance. You’ve seen nothing yet.
“Of course, of course, my dear, Miss Redmond,” the viscomtesse soothed unconvincingly. “You will be a welcome addition to our little party, though your stay will be so lamentably short.”
Violet ducked her head demurely to hide her smile, because the words sounded very like a threat. As though the viscomtesse was telling her in a coded way that she would be dispatching her with the tines of a fork over dinner.
Then again, everything sounded ironic when uttered in French-accented English.
There was to be dancing, then dinner, then games and more dancing, the trio was informed before they were ushered up a flight of curving marble stairs. One of the footmen bore Violet’s portmanteau up with him. Her hand trailed the carved gilt banister and balustrade, savoring the beauty and ostentation even though it was the sort that comprised her gilded Redmond cage. She didn’t object to comfort and luxury. At the top of the stairs, when Lavay and the earl were led in an opposite direction, Violet looked down to see the viscomtesse standing perfectly still, looking up at her from the center of the foyer, beneath an enormous branched chandelier dangling on a chain that could have supported a ship’s anchor.
Even from this dizzying distance, she saw the flare of triumph in the woman’s eyes—she would not be sleeping in any proximity to the earl—before she clicked off in her satin slippers.
Oh, what care I. Because everywhere was blue in her chamber, and it was clean, carpeted in plush, fringed, Savonnerie, hung with periwinkle velvet curtains and scented by an explosive profusion of hothouse blossoms stuffed into a tall Chinese vase. It was such an onslaught of comfort her senses hardly knew which pleasure to hoard first. Part of the advantage of sailing on a schooner, she decided, was how temporarily novel it made the luxuries she took for granted.
She unlaced her walking shoes to sink her bare toes into the fathoms deep carpet, and settled her body on the bed, and next she sprang up to order a bath. She intended to make the most of the amenities while she was here. For if she had her way—and she saw no reason why she should not—she would be continuing her voyage on The Fortuna.
She wondered if the earl would smell of his own soap or of borrowed Hebert soap when he came down for dinner.
The thought astounded her so thoroughly she froze for a moment dead center in the room, like a wild creature cornered by an unfamiliar beast. Uncertain whether it would tear her to pieces or curl up at her feet and purr.
A few hours after a bath, dressed in the fine gown she’d packed in her trunk for her journey primarily out of habit, Violet descended the winding miles of marble steps to join the guests milling about what the viscomtesse apparently called The Silver Salon, and the closer to the foot of the stairs she reached the harder her heart thumped.
What if she entered the room and Lyon—Mr. Hardesty—stood there, plain as day? She’d never before fainted. But she did pause with her hand on the banister then to accommodate the sudden anticipatory rush of blood to her head. She took each step with care to avoid treading her hem.
The gown was a glossy midnight purple lutestring gathered and draped at the bodice to show as much white shoulder and bosom as possible, and against the color her skin glowed like ivory satin. The skirt was overlaid with tulle in a mistier shade of the same purple, and a narrow silver ribbon wrapped beneath the bosom. She was a veritable Circe in it. Or so she’d once been told by a lordling who claimed he’d been literally brought to his knees by her sorcery, rather than brandy, though his breath made a liar of him.
Her own breath came in short gusts now as she clicked alone across the foyer in her dancing slippers, following the buzz of voices and the pleasant anticipator cacophony of stringed instruments being tuned.
She sidled into the silver room, hovering at first on its periphery. Tension stretched her skin drum-tight over the bones of her face. She took in a deep, long breath, and found herself looking for two men at once: Mr. Hardesty, also known as Le Chat, and the Earl of Ardmay. She would recognize a Redmond anywhere, instantly—that indolent grace and impressive height, the dark hair, her own blood—and just as quickly knew Lyon was nowhere among the score or more men and women in the room.
Disappointment and a peculiar relief were twin waves through her, and her knees weakened again. Because what precisely would she say if she saw him? And what would he do? Bolt?
Drag her out of the room by the ear and give her a scolding?
She naturally hadn’t considered what might happen, as responding to the moment generally proved so much more interesting.
She felt lost.
The other man made her feel peculiarly found. Near the towering, intricately carved mantelpiece, clutching glasses of sherry, the Earl of Ardmay and Lavay stood in conversation with the viscomtesse and a saturnine fellow in black who looked permanently bored in the way those possessed of ancient titles often do. She imagined this was the viscomte.
The earl seemed like a landmark. Like something she’d always known. She tried for detachment again, wondering whether she thought him handsome.
His head turned slightly. Enough for his gaze to snag upon her.
He slowly straightened to his full height and went utterly still. A fleeting brigade of emotions chased each other across his face—she saw wonder, and something so nearly like pain her breath caught in surprise. Cold intensity settled in again at last. But still he didn’t blink. As though he wouldn’t dream of wasting a second on blinking when he could be looking at her instead.
Something as taken for granted as admiration had never before left her so breathless and unsteady.
She straightened her own spine, squaring her own shoulders, unconsciously mimicking him. It was as though she were finding her balance on the swaying deck of a ship. She gave him a short regal nod and a little smile and arched a brow. Pretending to accept his rapt attention as only her due.
He nodded once, smiling faintly, and turned away.
And thus she was reminded rather powerfully that he was nothing like the London bloods, refined dinner party notwithstanding, and that he was not a man to be trifled with under any circumstances.
Peals of adorable laughter sent the viscomtesse’s froth of blond ringlets bobbing, and she rested her hand, gloved in copper satin, on the earl’s arm. Violet stared at that hand as though it were a venomous spider. Naturally the earl turned to her, leaned his tall self solicitously down to her petite height.
And then the countess lifted her hand up again, and Lavay apparently said something equally mirth-inducing, and down came that hand again on the earl’s arm—not Lavay’s—as though laughter wracked her petite frame so violently she required the extra support.
Violet fought the urge to roll her eyes, and took a step into the room from her place at the periphery.
“Oi, Mum!”
What on earth? Something was tugging at her from below.
Down around her hip Violet found a boy of about five or eight years old or thereabouts—Violet was never certain about ages when it came to young children—gripping her skirt. Reflexively, she gently extricated his hand. Children were invariably sticky, particularly boys, and this one didn’t look at all clean. His hair stood out in greasy spikes and there was dirt on his knees.
Where on earth had he come from?
“Ought you to be downstairs among the adults, young man? Does your nurse know you’re not in bed?”
Interesting how easily lecturing came to her. Then, goodness knows she’d heard enough lectures in her day.
He held in his hand a sheet of foolscap. “Mum! I waited fer ye. I’ve pictures for you, Mum.”
“Er…Pictures?” He’d waited for her?
Baffled, Violet looked about for rescue; saw no one who appeared to be a parent or a nurse. And the boy stared up at her so pleadingly, with such huge eyes, from such a seeming distance, that she found herself kneeling awkwardly to make herself closer to his size. Should she hold out her hand for him to sniff? What did one do with children?
He somberly pushed a sheet of foolscap at her.
She dutifully took it and looked at it, feeling foolish. At first glance, it appeared as though he’d been practicing his alphabet and drawing barnyard animals. He’d scrawled a few letters on it along with a picture of…was that a cow?
He twisted a finger in one nostril.
She looked up from the foolscap and frowned at him. The twisting stopped.
What did one say to children? She’d cousins all over England, and a number of them were filling up their homes with broods, but their visits to the Redmond household were rare. Something praiseful would do, no doubt.
“Did you…draw these for me? Oh look! That’s a lovely cow! And is that a—”
“Ack!” the boy cried suddenly and darted off like a rabbit.
Well, then. Apparently she was a frightener of children.
She stood, feeling a bit abashed. Perhaps it wasn’t a cow, and she’d insulted him inadvertently. Children were fickle creatures.
She glanced again at the souvenir sheet foolscap he’d left her with, holding it gingerly with two fingers, considering what he’d been doing with his own fingers.
But then her glance became a stare.
The random letters on the page were…astonishingly confidently formed. Eerily so. There was an R and U. Was the boy’s name Rupert? Perhaps he’d lost interest in spelling his name in favor of an overwhelming urge to draw the cow? For in front of the R and U was…
Wait. Was that a cow?
She frowned as she stared at it, then absently rubbed the frown lines smooth from her forehead.
And then the hair prickled at the back of her neck.
It wasn’t a cow. Or a bull.
It was…the devil.
As a matter of fact, a very good rendering of Beelzebub’s head. He sported a sneer and two grand horns.
Unsettling, to say the least. She looked about nervously for the child and was relieved to see it had all but disappeared. She glanced up; the earl and Comte Hebert were deep in conversation.
She wondered if the rest of the drawings would prove similarly sinister.
But a collection of barnyard animals did feature. The thing she’d thought was a cloud was in fact a sheep, looking like a fluffy cumulus with legs; a great fan of eyelashes decorating its dreamy eyes. Clearly meant to be a girl sheep, then. Below the sheep was an excellent pig, very fat with a tail like a spring and perched on hooves as sharp and neat as W’s. Next to the pig was a long narrow stem or stalk of some manner of plant…
Realization slammed her breathless.
That pig…was standing next to a thistle.
It was a Pig & Thistle.
Goose flesh raced over her limbs. Her hands turned icy, then hot, then icy. She carefully raised her head, as though balancing one of the viscomte’s precious urns upon it, then with what she hoped would pass for nonchalance scanned the room. Nobody new had entered it. Nobody had departed it. Viscomtesse Hebert placed her hand on the earl’s arm and laughed her cascading bell-like actressy laugh yet again. For the first time this evening she didn’t mind. Everyone was still chatting. She heard no distinct words; the guests might well have been a hive of bees buzzing.
Her hand was shaking now. She supported it with her other hand to stop the sheet from rattling. Then she gulped in the images with disbelieving eyes, willed her wits to realign, and rapidly…began to decode.
The first drawing was what looked like a teardrop or perhaps a water droplet, followed by a line—the symbol for subtraction, perhaps?—and the letters E and R. Then came the leering little devil face, then the R and the U. They were followed by the letter D, which was joined to that picture of a sheep—a ewe—by a plus symbol, and another plus symbol joined them with and the letters ING. Then there was an H, a plus sign, and…for heaven’s sake, was that a seashell? A slice of potato?
And then she had it: It was an ear.
What the devil are you doing here? she finally deciphered.
A rush of pleasure, brilliant as a gulp of sunlight suffused her.
Oh, very affectionate, Lyon.
Another R and a U were followed by a drawing of a little well. Very like the one she’d threatened to cast herself down when she’d argued with a suitor.
Are you well?
And below this was the little Pig & Thistle.
But why? Was mentioning the beloved ancient Pennyroyal Green pub just his way of ensuring the message would make its sender unmistakable?
She exhaled, which is when she realized she’d been holding her breath, and when she’d discovered that the invisible anvil she hadn’t known was riding on her chest since Lyon’s disappearance was gone. The next breath she took left her nearly airborne with an untenable, sun-bright happiness. Her eyes burned with a veritable conflagration of emotions.
The world still contained Lyon. Ha! She’d been right!
It still didn’t prove that he was either Mr. Hardesty or Le Chat.
That surge of sun-bright happiness was followed by an equally powerful surge of fury. Bloody man! What was he about? What the devil was she doing here? What the devil was he doing here? He was in danger, from the man who’d undressed her with his eyes moments before and whose arm was being felt again and again by a viscomtesse.
And clever, wasn’t Lyon, to send a childish code in the hands of a child. Brilliant, really.
Where was he?
She peered anxiously in the direction the child had dashed. Down a hall, vanishing deeper into the house, perhaps into the kitchen? He wasn’t a clean child. Perhaps he’d been recruited from the street and somehow found his way into the house proper. Cheeky and bold.
What now was she supposed to do?
She nervously glanced down again. At the very bottom of the note were two more letters: Y and N. Then a drawing of a leaf—it appeared to be an oak leaf, but she wasn’t certain whether that mattered—then a tiny drawing of a bed with an arrow pointing beneath it, and a flower—a violet—drawn on top of it.
Violet—that would be her, she guessed. So she was to choose an answer regarding whether or not she was well—a Y or N—and leaf it under her bed.
She was tempted to laugh, if it wasn’t all so deadly serious.
Lyon was certainly putting a lot of stock in her intelligence and forgiveness at the moment, given that she wasn’t known for her scholarly impulses or selflessness, particularly.
She wasn’t certain whether to destroy the foolscap immediately, but impulse made her speedily fold it in as many neat squares as the sheet would allow and tuck it deep into her bodice.
And the earl, with his knack for knowing precisely when she was looking at him, glanced at her just as she was sliding her fingers out from between her breasts.
She froze in that unfortunate position.
And because he was a man, his gaze froze right where her fingers were; his pupils flared interestedly. But it only took a moment for his gaze to fly from her bosom to her face, because he was also hopelessly clever.
And he clearly saw something interesting in her expression.
He went very still again. He contemplated her thoughtfully.
The longer she held his gaze the more suspicious she would seem. Bloody hell. She couldn’t very well turn her bosom finger-dive into a full-on scratch. Her gloved fingers remained in that absurdly provocative position.
She finally pretended to adjust a necklace that wasn’t there, while silently screaming Touch his arm again! at the petulant viscomtesse.
Destiny favored her.
That small hand came up again, tapped the earl flirtatiously on his forearm, and for the first time this evening Violet wasn’t peculiarly tempted to bite off the woman’s fingers when the earl was forced to turn his attention to her once again.
Violet turned, hoping to find the stairs and dart after the mysterious child through the kitchen just as the strains of an orchestra started up.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw elbows lift bows to cellos and violins; the first bars of the waltz lilted forth. She committed to taking one step out of the room. Oh God. The stairs seemed acres away. Across a noisy expanse of slippery marble. From where she stood they seemed endless, insurmountable, like something out of a feverish nightmare. Her heart pounded with pugilistic ferocity.
She turned around to glance back into the room. Blocking her vision of everything else was a startlingly white cravat and crisp linen shirt.
Inside them, of course, was the earl.
How had he moved so quickly? She supposed it was helpful to possess seven-league legs.
And then she realized she was in essence under surveillance for as long as she was here. He’d appeared to be talking to the viscomtesse, absorbed in the group.
Likely he hadn’t missed a thing.
She wondered just what he’d actually seen and how much.
So much for destiny.
She looked slowly up. His eyes bored into hers, and his hand was outstretched, and he was prepared to escort her—like a prisoner?—into the dancing. His expression brooked no argument.
“I do enjoy the waltz, Miss Redmond. It affords one the opportunity for private conversation in the midst of company. I would be honored if you would join me in this one.”
She knew it wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.
In mocking contrast to his uncompromising expression, the music loped sweetly along. She recognized Mozart. The “Sussex Waltz.” Somehow this seemed significant.
What could she do but take his hand? And hope he didn’t feel that rapid tick of her pulse in her wrist.